


Flower of the Steppe

by Sweety_Mutant



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Flowers, Hypnotism, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Sexual Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant
Summary: Dreams, Memories, and a wildflower





	Flower of the Steppe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AconitumNapellus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/gifts).



> This was the request:  
> "I'd like anything angsty or hot or sweet featuring our two lovely agents. I don't mind any rating up to and through explicit. No het, slash preferred, but gen is fine.
> 
> Prompts: Memory problems. Rope. Flowers."
> 
>  
> 
> I came up with this idea in a café in Barcelona, but Paris is usually my go-to city for Paeonia tenuifolia, in the Jardin des Plantes.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading, I loved writing for this prompt!

Napoleon looked down at his folded hands.

“Yes, always the same. There’s this warehouse… well I guess it is a warehouse, but it’s just a feeling, I never see the exterior. It is always dark when I go in, light comes little by litte, until I see him. His face? No… not this time. I never saw his face. I just know that I know him. Knew him. At one point in time. He is tied up in the same position, head down…”

“And you still ended up in that same field of grass when you got closer?”

He nods. “Always. As soon as I am close enough to see his face, there is this field. But the feelings are worsening. I feel even more threatened then before, like someone will jump at me from the shadows… or like something terrible would happen should I touch this man. Do you think the field--”

“Is a defense mechanism conjured by your mind? That would be the most logical answer Mr. Solo. The most logical indeed…”

Napoleon looked up, his eyes meeting his therapist’s. He was searching for an answer, anything. These nightmares had been plaguing him non-stop these last months, and at first he had thought they had something to do with the war, he had had nightmares of the war, but the danger in this one was different. The fear was cutting deeper. There was a need to know. To see the face of that man, to understand… But he never did.

The seance went on a little longer, Napoleon’s therapist drawing the conversation away from the dreams and towards more pleasant subjects, Napoleon’s everyday life. Half an hour later, Napoleon got up, and they shook hands, Mr. Kuryakin handing him his prescription.

“Thank you Mr. Kuryakin.”

“See you next month Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon walked out of the office. It was a familiar pattern, these visits to his therapist. Mr. Kuryakin was a nice person, in Napoleon’s opinion. Always a kind ear, and a sad gleam in his eyes that was a little bit too familiar. It was like he understood Napoleon perfectly, but at the same time, there seemed to be a glass panel between them. Something that made it impossible for him to help Napoleon. Napoleon regretted that. 

It had been five years since his accident, five years since he had monthly appointments with Mr. Kuryakin. In fact, Napoleon did not remember much the accident. He had been givest the barest details, the car crashing, the list of injuries. Brain damage. He was lucky, according to the doctors, to have lost no memory. All in all, Napoleon was a lucky man. He lived in New York, and his veteran’s pension was good enough to live comfortably. He had some success with boys, and girls liked him too, such that he was almost never alone each time he went to a jazz concert or a restaurant. He did not mind their company, and sometimes even he would take his date home. Yet, Napoleon lived a relatively solitary life, and all in all, he was okay with that. He had Mr. Kuryakin to talk to. Sometimes, when life was calm, the therapy seances would evolve into small talks about books or music. Napoleon's only wish would have been to be able to consider Mr. Kuryakin a friend. Ask him out for a drink, or maybe a walk in the park, ending the afternoon listening to a new record. 

Yes, Napoleon had a good life. That had been a few months ago, before the nightmares began. The same nightmare. Not each night, but several times a week. The same warehouse. The same man. The same field of grass, unending, with flowers almost blooming. The flowers had never bloomed in six months. He had never seen the man’s face.

 

There was no nightmare that night, nor the one that followed. It was usually the case after he saw Mr. Kuryakin. The man was really helping him, anc the pills too.

A calm week passed. No nightmare, no field of grass.

 

***

 

Napoleon was walking down Central Park, a book forgotten in his hand. It was a nice spring day, the birds were chirping, younger people listening to music and chatting. Napoleon sat down, enjoying the warm weather. To his left, delicate red flowers caught his attention.

A splitting headache.

A sharp cry of pain.

_Napoleon’s footsteps echoed through the empty space of the warehouse. He had a bad feeling about all of this, like he was being watched and followed at the same time. But like he was awaited too. He tried to rush forward, to the silhouette on the other side of the room. Hunched over a chair, head down and messy blonde hair. Napoleon ran forward, his weapon in his hand. The man was tied to a chair, naked, bloody, an intricate play of ropes digging into his skin. Upon hearing his footsteps, the tied man looked up, panick in his clear blue eyes, his mouh open in a silent cry. A familiar face Napoleon could never have forgottten. Illya._

_As soon as Napoleon’s hand touched Illya’s face, the whole room dissolved into an endless field of grass. Napoleon was in intense pain, falling on the his knees. All around him, flowers began to bloom. Napoleon was not sure he had ever seen these flowers in real life, but he knew what they were._ _Fern leaf peony._

 

***

 

Napoleon woke up to the slow beeping of a machine. He kept his eyes closed. Where was he? This place smelled too clean, like a hospital. What had happened? His head hurt, a constant pounding. Slowly, he opened one eye, hospital room indeed. Napoleon, now fully awake, tried to prop himself up on his elbows, taking in his surroundings. The room was painted white, a small window lighting it up. On the nightstand, a glass of water, white pills;  and besides the bed an empty chair. Napoleon breathed out, his head still aching.

What had happened?

A few minutes later, Napoleon still had no answer. Nurses came, checking on him, refusing to answer anything but the most basic questions. He had a concussion, he had been out for a day, he was lucky. Always the same old story. Hours later his headache had barely dulled, when someone knocked on his door, coming in. It was Mr. Kuryakin, much to Napoleon's surprise. How could have had learned about the accident? It was strange.

“Hello Mr. Solo, I hope I do not disturb your rest… the nurses told me about your accident, and that I could come in.”

Napoleon’s headache was becoming worse again. Something was wrong. Napoleon managed a weak smile, and suddenly remembered.

“The accident yes… I remember I was at the park." Napoleon did not know why he told his therapist that, or even why his therapist would be visiting him, but he felt, deep inside himself, a need to tell. "I had the same dream, but I was not sleeping!” As always, Mr. Kuryakin was kind, and listened to him quietly, sitting down . “-- this time, something was different. I saw his face, but I can’t see it anymore, I remember everything so clearly, touching his face… but I can’t picture it anymore. And the field… the field was blooming!”

“Fern leaf peony,” Mr. Kuryakin whispered, his eyes not meeting Napoleon’s.

“I never told you they were peonies.” It was as if Napoleon had been hit by lighting.

And all came back to him.

_Fern leaf peony._

_Fern leaf peony._

_Fern leaf peony._

_Fern leaf peony._

_Illya._

_Fern leaf peony._

_lllya please._

_We have to do this._

It all came back to him.

“Illya.”

A sob escaped Illya -yes, it was him, Illya, his Illya, his partner of a lifetime- and he burried his head in his hands. “This is the first time it has ever happened.”

Napoleon did not know what to say. It was too much. Too much. He remembered too much now. Was he angry at Illya for playing a part? was he angry at himself? No, he felt no anger. No sadness either. He remembered, ansd that feeling was overwhelming enough.

The mission, the code. The formula. Illya. 

He had done it for U.N.C.L.E. He had done it for Illya. It had seemed like a good idea then, the only way to do it, the only solution. But now he could not say anymore. Had  it been the only solution 

The mission would have been pretty standard, if it was not for TRUSH managing to get a hold of Illya.  They had captured him while and brought him to a secret location, promising his safe release if Napoleon delivered a secret  formula U.N.C.L.E. had been working on to them. The formula was of a brand new truth serum, one U.N.C.L.E. wished TRUSH would never put their hands on. 

Fearing for Illya's life, Napoleon had convinced Mr. Waverly to play along. He trusted Napoleon's abilities, but the stakes were high. From the beginning, Napoleon has planned to never give the formula and bring Illya back home safely, like they had done so many times in the past. They had been prepared for the worse since a long time ago. Since their friendship had grown into something more, something so powerful... liability had said Mr. Waverly. Liability to each other. They had reflected on it during long nights spent cuddling, and had settled on a pretty easy solution. Intensive preparation, a hidden capsule of neurotoxins and code words. Remote deprogrammation, they could forget each other, forget all about their love and all about U.N.C.L.E. They had agreed on that, for the other’s sake. If one day, it would come to this, they would forget each other to save their love’s life. 

When Napoleon had arrived in the TRUSH facility, he had not been prepared for what he saw. Illya had been tortured, tied up to a chair, naked, every inch of his body covered in bruises and blood. The warehouse had been suspiciously empty, and Napoleon had rushed to Illya. It had been a tram, Napoleon had known it, but he had not cared. He would have done everything for Illya. 

When the TRUSH agents had surrounded him, « the formula, and we spare him. » Napoleon had almost broken. He had the words on his tongue, he would spill any secret to keep Illya safe. 

 They had chosen the peony because it was a flower of the steppe.  _It will always remind me of you Illya, even if we have to do it... it will always bring me back to us._ Little had Napoleon known then, when Illya had whispered the code word in a last attempt to save the formula, that five years later it would indeed bring Napoleon back to him. Napoleon had not resisted when he had heard Illya.  _Fern leaf peony._ He had bitten hard on the capsule. It was better that way. He had been ready to compromise U.N.C.L.E. for Illya, it was a fitting punishment. He had fallen down on the ground, the neurotoxin taking effet. 

"You won't get enything out of him now," had struggled to say Illya. "It's over."

The TRUSH agents had known that Illya was telling the truth.  U.N.C.L.E. had tricked them, and was prepared. More agents would come, soon. They choose the safest solution and fled the warehouse, leaving Illya bleeding out in the chair and Napoleon unconscious at his feet. "Do you forgive me?"

The formula was safe. One agent down. Partial victory. Such a bitter, bitter victory. 

It had been five years. Five long years, during which Napoleon had lived a blurred life. 

“Mr. Waverly asked me to watch over you, since I was the one holding the key to your memories. These were the longest five years of my life." So many emotions in Illya's voice. So many feelings Napoleon was not ready to face, and yet was supposed to return. He should have been happy. He should have been in love. 

Napoleon did not know what to answer. How to live with this knowledge? How to live with the lost years? 

"I suppose you have orders?" Napoleon asked at last.

Illya nodded, his hand still gripping Napoleon's. Napoleon could easily see Illya was not happy with these order. "We have to part again."

Illya sounded heartbroken. Napoleon, on the other hand, could not read his own heart. Long lost years, and the memories of two different lives. He was confused, he was in no shape to take a decision. But was not forgetting easier? It was cowardly of him to think so, but Napoleon was in no way able to think back on his choices. Besides, whoever was U.N.C.L.E.'s number 1 now, they probably would want this over quickly. It was in the rules, once somebody was re-programmed, it was forever

"Well, the formula is more advanced than five years ago, so I do hope you will not have nightmares." Illya said as a way to comfort himself.

Napoleon smiled tentatively. He could call himself a coward, but it was too much now, this near stranger whom he loved so much and yet the memories felt like they belonged to someone else. Illya did not press on, and fished a small box from his pocket. He opened it, and took two small metallic circles from it, pressing each on Napoleon's temples. Then, he produced a small white pill from the box. "It will be over quickly." 

Napoleon took the pill, and swallowed it dry. He knew that Illya was not pleased, and wished for a real reunion. He was sorry to disappoint, he was sorry for the past, for his strange self. Napoleon felt a buzz in his head. He would forget everything again. Now he was afraid, just for a second. He had found his true self back again, why was he so afraid to become himself again? Was he afraid of love? As his mind became heavier and heavier, Napoleon felt it. The overwhelming need to keep Illya close. He could lose his identity again, but not him. Whoever he was, his life would never be empty with Illya a part of it. As he closed his eyes, waiting for the potent chemicals to wash over the steppe of his memories again, Napoleon said. "I'd like to resume our seances Mr. Kuryakin. I had grown to enjoy our talks, and their are a few records I'd wish to listen to with you."

Napoleon fell into medicated sleep. He could not see it but from the door, Illya smiled. Feelings could transcend memories, all was not lost

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked your gift <3 <3 <3


End file.
